After considerable cajoling, my parents finally gave in and bought me a television. I was probably around sixteen. It was an 18 inch black and white TV: one of my cherished possessions, until college, when my interest in television viewing waned considerably. Years later I decided to sell it. It was still in good condition, and asked what I deemed a fair price. Maybe it was $50 or $75, I can’t recall.

I was renting a room at that time in a beautiful home. The owner was away and I shared it with her nineteen-year-old son.

I had advertised in the local paper, found a buyer, and arranged for the TV to be picked up. I asked the son, in case I was out, if he could handle the sale. “Sure”, he said, ” no problem.”

Later that day, I arrived home. “That guy came by, here’s your money,” the son said. “Great, thanks so much.” I replied. But, when I went to my room, my TV was still there.

Heading back into the living room I noticed the gap where the owner’s 27 inch color television once was.